Garden Gifts

Out of nowhere, a robin landed on the concrete fountain. It took a drink, pivoted, and flew over my head towards the dogwood. Wings stirred the air just inches from my face. I felt the rush. 

Birdwatching was an added bonus on my frequent trips to public gardens like this one. On lazy Sunday afternoons I would amble down moss-covered brick paths flanked by ancient boxwoods and towering magnolias. I was captivated by blankets of wild roses scrambling over weathered trellises and fragrant lilacs peeking through picket fences along the winding paths. While blissfully lost in contented thought, a bird would always appear to punctuate the scene. Spending time in any garden became the respite I sought more and more often. Gardens promised joy – and birds flew in to seal the deal. 

I found myself traveling farther and farther for the experience. I had to. The sense of calm in these outdoor spaces was remarkable. It was a feeling I loved and needed, so traveling to find it was never an issue. Besides, there was no way I could recreate that level of serenity in my own back yard.  

Or could I?

At the time, my yard consisted of a pitiful patch of sickly grass flanked by two haggard shrubs and an old crepe myrtle, their placement decided by a previous owner. I only passed through to take out the trash, but lately I wondered whether I really had to rely on the horticultural efforts of others. Surely, I could create a garden of my own, not as large, but just as amazing as those I visited!

My excitement drove me outside to assess the yard. My disgust drove me back. Wow, worse than I thought. 

Resigned to the ugly truth, I trudged back out for another look. One shrub needed pruning and the other was actually dead. The jury was still out on the old crepe myrtle. And not a bird in sight. After accepting the status of my bleak little space, I did what any rational person would have done. I grabbed my car keys and left home. Hurriedly, I drove to the next public garden on my list and felt the familiar peace wash over me. Out of nowhere, a bluebird dropped from above to snag a beetle in the grass. 

Before the next weekend, I mentally regrouped. Then, with renewed confidence in my ability to transform, I ran into the tiny yard and feverishly dug at the yellowing grass to scratch outlines of future flowerbeds into the dirt. Would that look good? Should the borders be straight? Maybe curved? Wait, birds would never come anyway. There’s no way to replicate a fine garden here. 

Defeated, I grabbed my car keys and backed out of the driveway, list of public gardens in hand. Once seated on a bench overlooking a patch of blooming irises, I felt the familiar peace wash over me again. Harmony at last. Out of nowhere, a cardinal landed on a nearby branch.

Later, back at home, while pulling the trashcan across my dusty plot it dawned on me. I didn’t need to recreate a thing. No garden is wrong. They all change with seasons and years and mine didn’t have to compare. It had only to make me happy. 

Determined now, I walked bravely back outside to tackle things anew. Shovel by shovel my vision would be revealed. I began work that evening and in spite of fleeting flashes of frustration, felt no urge to grab my car keys. 

For days, I dug grass, said goodbye to the shrubs, and filled empty spots with fresh plants. The old crepe myrtle looked grand after a light pruning. I wrestled with hoses, tripped over trowels, and fell into holes I had only just dug. But I enjoyed getting every bruise. Paths appeared, and beds aligned. Jaunts to the local nursery were made, repeatedly, to purchase seeds, bulbs and vines. I even bought a concrete fountain as the final crowning centerpiece. I was done.

I thought fondly of my list of public gardens. I would still visit them, but that day I need not travel. Sitting on my new bench under my old crepe myrtle, I watched foxgloves sway, ivy creep, and water sparkle in the fountain. The little dogwood I planted would show off soon enough. Flowers, bees, and butterflies began to appear that before the transformation had absolutely no reason to be there. It had all come together. 

Yet, I watched in vain for a bird.

My satisfaction with the little garden was amplified by the fact that I created it myself. As the garden grew, so would my delight in its metamorphosis. My elation was overwhelming as I listened to the trickling water and there, in that moment, I felt the familiar peace wash over me.

Out of nowhere, a robin landed on the concrete fountain. It took a drink, pivoted, and flew over my head towards the dogwood. Wings stirred the air just inches from my face. I felt the rush. 

Stuart M. Perkins

Advertisement

Turning Over a New Leaf

My bed felt too good to leave that summer morning years ago. I yawned, fluffed my pillow, and rolled over. The house seemed quiet. Hopefully no one was around to tell me to get up.

“Get up!” my sister yelled from the hallway.

“For what?” I yelled back with no intention of leaving the bed.

“We told Nannie we’d pull weeds.” My sister now loomed over me, hand on her hip.

My grandmother’s farmhouse in Richmond was surrounded by flowerbeds which always required attention, but we loved helping her with the work. One tedious task was pulling the first flush of spring weeds from her rose beds. They were periodically smothered in wiregrass and other low-growing things which we simply referred to disgustedly as “chickweed.”

My sister and I pulled for hours that day. Starting at one end of the long bed, by the handfuls we ripped out wheelbarrow loads until we neared the opposite end. Tired of wiping gritty sweat from my face, I could think only of escaping on my bicycle to meet friends. But, just one patch of chickweed left and we’d be finished.

I stopped to stretch and noticed a thick stand of violets under a nearby crepe myrtle. For years we’d been unable to get rid of that particular mass, try as we might, and we knew we’d be wrestling with it that year too.

“We’ll pull that when we finish this,” I pointed with resignation to the chickweed at my feet.

“You can leave the violets be this year,” Nannie said as she walked towards them. From her old galvanized bucket she sprinkled a small handful of fertilizer into the leafy mass. We stared in disbelief.

“Did you just fertilize those weeds?” We were puzzled. She had always wished those violets gone.

“It’s only a weed if you don’t want it,” Nannie said, casually going about her business.

Baffled by her about face, we agreed to leave the violets alone and continued with our task at hand. I looked down and noticed several strands of chickweed lodged in my shoelaces. I plucked one stem and absent-mindedly studied the small piece of nuisance.

Although I’d pulled tons of that stuff over the years I had never bothered to look at it closely. “Hey!” I yelled to Nannie. “The stems on these things are square! Look! The flowers are like tiny orchids!” What a remarkable discovery – I thought.

What I had “discovered,” I learned years later, was that the sprawling nightmare is not chickweed. It’s actually purple dead-nettle, a non-native intrusive plant with purplish-green leaves and tiny purple flowers. The plant is found, well, all over the place. Unknown to me at the time.

“Can we keep these?” I asked excitedly, pointing to the last bit we had yet to pull from the rose bed. Suddenly I was determined to preserve something so special. “They might be the last of their kind!”

“Yeah, except for those.” my sister said sarcastically, pointing towards the barn where at least two acres of pasture appeared dusty purple from the masses of dead-nettle growing there.

Nannie stared down at the remaining patch of alien green in her rose bed. “You want to leave those weeds?” she asked.

“But it’s only a weed if you don’t want it,” I grinned. The problem I cursed every year was suddenly something unique and worthwhile to me.

Nannie smiled and said nothing. She walked again to the crepe myrtle where she sprinkled another small handful of fertilizer onto the violets growing beneath. Admittedly, they had turned into quite a display after weeks of benefitting from her new policy.

Nannie had shifted her view. Practiced at picking her battles, rather than fight the violets she chose to embrace them and by doing so turned a headache into a showpiece. Satisfaction can come with a simple change in attitude. Nannie learned that long ago and taught it now with the help of a few insignificant weeds.

I understood her change of heart and marveled at how smoothly she turned a problem into a bonus. From her reaction though, I guessed the same didn’t apply to my remaining clumps of chickweed in the rose bed. Sure, there were acres of the scourge growing just across the fence, but the remnant at my feet intrigued me. Nannie headed to the house as my sister and I stared at the scraggly patch I’d lobbied to preserve. Maybe she hadn’t understood my similar reversal of opinion.

Nannie was just a few steps past us when she stopped, turned around, and with a grin sprinkled a small handful of fertilizer onto my chickweed.

Stuart M. Perkins